She stares out of her bedroom window, eyes glazed like assembly-line donuts, wringing out her hands. Adjacent to her is Him; he’s wringing out his shirt, running a hand through his hair, checking his breath, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, approaching closer to the window. Cold, all she feels is a chill, not brisk, but enveloping, misty, effervescent, then just damp, vacant. Goosebumps, a shiver, and a sigh. Her eyes are glued to the sight outside of her window, a neighborhood, populated by little pastel matchbox houses, waiting, in a floral dress that hangs a little above her knees, her hair in soft curls, her meticulously done makeup on the urge of running. He slinks closer, pressing against her, looming over her, his chest heaving, his head shaking. She looks at her pocketwatch necklace, a Spring trend, and the calendar from France her aunt sent her, scanning over the day’s date starred in rose. Date! Her head collapses into her arms, small shoulders shaking, rickety. He wants to run a hand up her back, reassuringly, and whisper in her ear sweet nothings that’ll tell her everything’ll be okay, no one really marries their high school sweethearts anymore anyway, but all she can do is cry, reading and reading the text on her phone from her boyfriend’s sister, saying “I’m so sorry, I, I don’t know what happened. The car --- the semi. They… I’m sorry. He loved you. Really.” An obituary is published in the paper the next day.